


BBCSH ‘Rat, Wedding, Bow’, Variation #1  [PG]

by tigersilver



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Marriage Proposal, Schmoop, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:13:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unadulterated schmoop, because I need schmoop of this calibre and I need it now.  In which there is the first response to the three single word prompts from the gods du Sherlock BBC (rat, wedding, bow) and in which there is a public proposal.  John has acquired specs. Sherlock has acquired a room newly devoted to ‘romance’ in his Mind Palace. And there is no effing Mary, not even a hint of one. IDEK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	BBCSH ‘Rat, Wedding, Bow’, Variation #1  [PG]

BBCSH ‘Rat, Wedding, Bow’, Variation #1

Author: tigersilver   
Rating: PG   
Pairing: Sherlock/John  
Word Count: 3,300   
Summary/Warnings: Unadulterated schmoop, because I _need_ schmoop of this calibre and _I need it now_.  In which there is the first response to the three single word prompts from the gods du Sherlock BBC (rat, wedding, bow) and in which there is a public proposal.  John has acquired specs. Sherlock has acquired a room newly devoted to ‘romance’ in his Mind Palace. And there is **no** effing Mary, not even a hint of one. IDEK. Have patience…I’m likely attempting another take on this self-induced prompting some time in the near future. Perhaps _that_ fic will be in character. (Grin) Oh, and you’ll find all three words employed, in various places. 

  


  


“John, I _must_ take you dancing.” 

As far as announcements of intent go, this one is not as startling to John as some others have been but _still_. He swallows and eyes his odd flatmate carefully from the safety of his armchair. 

“Who,” he asks of Sherlock slowly, “would lead?” 

John doesn’t bother to ask _why_ Sherlock wishes to take him dancing. 

“Right now. This evening. We mustn’t delay any longer.” 

Mrs Hudson has done a fine job of ratting Sherlock out, so John has a remarkable inkling as to the whys and wherefores of Sherlock’s new obsession. She’d nimbly dragged John aside the previous evening, when he was tacking his way up the familiar old stairs, fresh from the A&E, and informed him in no uncertain terms, that it was more than time for him to ‘settle up with that boy, John.  He fancies you something fierce!’

“Oh—lead? Me, of course.” Sherlock blinks brightly down at his old friend, having leapt to his feet off their old familiar sofa and come to stand jittering before John’s seat, thrusting out an impatient hand and waving the fingers of it directly under John’s nose. John rears back, afeared of a random thumb up his nostril. “Come on, up with you. Go dress. No time like the present.” 

“Ungh!” 

Reluctantly, John allows himself to be hauled to the vertical. 

“Easy does it, John. Careful.” 

His flatmate is all consideration, which is highly unusual in any circumstance. Abruptly unsure of his place in the temporal zone, John sways, just a bit, fighting for balance. 

“I’ll call for a taxi shortly.” The hand grasping his so firmly doesn’t leave go.  Instead, it is joined by another, which creeps up his arm like infection. “All right there?” 

When Sherlock had re-arrived unexpectedly in his life just the morning previous, John had had the poor sense to first faint like the merest girl, right in his very own office at the clinic. Head throbbing, seeing crimson, screaming imprecations bourn of Army life, he’d struggled up and had promptly clocked the bastard, but fucking good, straight on the jawbone. Had then hugged the sputtering, gesticulating and above all brilliantly impervious clod, so terribly tight he could hear two sets of ribs crackling through his buzzing ears. Ready tears had dampened his lashes so much so they’d smudged his new spec lenses. And then Doctor Watson had just as promptly succumbed to unconsciousness again, likely due to a mild concussion, vomiting bile on Sherlock’s shoes in passing as the detective deftly snatched him mid-air before John could assault the pristine tile flooring a second time with his poor abused head.  

His yesterday had been quite eventful. He’s been quite careful navigating ever since, especially as Sherlock and then the intrepid Mrs Hudson have both displayed a definite tendency to hover over him round the clock and John is quite convinced he doesn’t care for the attention. 

_Not_ for a simple whack to his temple. 

Perhaps for the utter alteration of his previous reality, though. He does care for that, and not in a good way. Well…not in a bad way, either. 

It’s all a bit muddled still. He’s found it best to just carry along with events, as apparently the detective has taken the reins firmly in hand. 

This dancing business, though? He’s not so sure…not about that. 

“I’ve had all your kit brought back,” Sherlock reminds him helpfully, steadying John with a fast clasp to his waist. His fingers linger warmly at John’s belt for just a fraction too long for the action to be unplanned and utterly spontaneous. John flushes, two spots of red riding high in his pale cheeks. Mrs Hudson haunts him briefly, all maternal. “Remember? John?” 

“Um-hmm,” John nods feebly. “Yes.” He halts abruptly mid-nod, scowling instead. Dancing? The two of them—two middle-aged men, together? “Um, _no_.” 

“No?” Sherlock cocks his chin at John like some bright-eyed waterfowl of the particularly leggy sort, perhaps a heron, and takes a better grip where he’s still got him caught by the hand and forearm. He uses both long hands to do it and John feels distinctly the discreet tickle at his elbow joint. That small caress causes his ear tips to burn. It’s not sexual, precisely, but it is abso-fucking-lutely soppy.  “’No’ what, John? ‘No, your stuff’s not here’—it _is_ —or ‘no, you don’t wish to go dancing?’ You _do_ , really. It’ll be fun.” 

The great Holmes grins, as if ‘fun’ equates to ‘forty-two’.  Or something. John scowls, defensively. 

“I—no,” he gulps, flipping his free hand in the air uncertainly. “Just. No, Sherlock.” 

His flatmate shakes his head patiently and slowly at him. He is clearly unrepentant, the callow git.  

“Know?” the man deliberately mis-repeats John’s word. “I happen to _know_ lots of things, John; I thought we’d established that. As do _you_.”

“But, I—you!”

“Because you also know as well as I do my brother has made certain all your possessions are in residence again, even the ones stored at your sister’s. The last of it arrived this morning, while you were sleeping. We’re at home again, John; we’re set.”

“Yes,” John allows. 

“And you know, too,” Sherlock needs no encouragement but he seems pleased all the same to receive verbal confirmation, “that it’s necessary we mark this momentous occasion, our reunion—it’s expected, isn’t it? Even I’m aware of the usual protocol. Besides, dancing is something I’d quite like to do, John, and with you especially, and I’d rather like to have at it right at this especial moment—the dancing.” 

The great detective pauses, licking his lips consideringly for a moment whilst John’s jaw slowly descends to his chest. Dancing? Really? 

“Well, more after a meal, naturally,” the bloody git carries on, blithely ignoring his flatmate’s obvious disconcertment, “because the floor at the Royal doesn’t open till nine and it’s barely half seven. You could use some solid sustenance tucked in you; neither of us really are best fit, are we? Been a bit rough, lately. But you still need to be dressed appropriately for the venue so you’d better begin, John. I can help you in the loo if you’re feeling dizzy? You wobbled, just now. But I’ve got you—see?”

“Sherlock.” 

“And your tux has been freshly pressed,” Sherlock continues, smiling sweetly as he does when wheedling. “Mrs Hudson was so kind as to make it ready for you when I asked her; it was terribly wrinkled from being squashed away in a carton in that disgusting little hole-in-the-wall tip you called home before yesterday. And, you know?”

“Know?” 

“She claims she’s not our housekeeper, John, even now, but really.”  Sherlock chuckles, squeezing John’s unresponsive and rather chilled hand in his warm one. “I find her protests highly unconvincing, don’t you? Look, she’s brought us tea again, just like the old days. Perhaps you should have another cup—or a biscuit. You’re peaky.” 

“Sherlock?” 

“Blood sugar needs a bit of a boost, perhaps.” Sherlock frowns clinically over John’s somewhat blank wide-eyed stare, as if John were in the process of actively growing another head and _he_ were the doctor in the room, and thus understandably curious. A glint of green lights up his changeable eyes for a second and is as quickly gone. “Hmm. Perhaps not; you’ve a  lovely bruise at your temple, John. Must be painful, still.”

“Sher—“

 In the space of a split-second the detective’s momentarily anxious face clears up of all concern and he’s returned to smiling down kindly at John. “Oh! I see, now.” 

John dearly wishes to strike his flatmate but he’s not quite steady enough on his pins yet. He silently and fluently curses the tile that did him in the day before, all unbeknownst to the musing detective. 

Cursing his own torturous fate momentarily consumes all of the good doctor’s attention. Sherlock meanwhile nods happily at John’s unhappily quirking eyebrows. He seems to have arrived at an erroneous conclusion. “Don’t you fret, John. When we dance together later I’ll go very carefully. I was thinking the waltz. Nice and simple, the waltz is. Perfect for my purposes—your very probably limited abilities—and your good health.” 

John is flabbergasted. More than a little. Sherlock, from all signs, is serious. About going dancing. 

He stalls completely where he’s standing, making no move to do anything, and certainly not to trot off to his newly refilled closet and make ready to go out. It strikes him:  Sherlock Holmes who are solicitous of John Watsons are _not_ what John is generally used to, at least not recently. Not before, either. As he’s not been accustomed to coping with any sort of Sherlock Holmes at all, recently, this should come as no surprise. But it does, despite a few key bits of evidence speaking to the contrary. The man who is bending over him right now, half-smiling, half-frowning, completely focussed on his chosen course of tripping the light fantastic with his mate, is not the same man John flat-shared with three years prior. No, this person before him would be the stubborn sod who jumped from a building in a conscious effort to save the lives of three people. 

“John? D’you feel sick or something? You’re not moving.” 

John is not certain he actually _likes_ this new version of Sherlock. It leaves him far dizzier than any passing head wound. He’s not had sufficient time to adjust. 

He is confused, he knows that, and not in the least from their landlady’s confidences over the state of the famous detective’s feelings—for him. Especially for him, John Watson. But it’s not his concussion, either.  That’s negligible; he should know—and he does, too. 

“Sherlock, I think we should have a little chat,” he ventures carefully, glancing off in any direction other than up. _Up_ is where the loon is, the one who wants to go dancing. “Before—before any,” he winces, “dancing.” 

“John.” 

The doctor attempts finally to take a step back and away from the detective, who has not let go of either his arm or his hand in the last several minutes and shows absolutely no inclination to do so. “About—about…” he stumbles about verbally, seeking enlightenment from someone, anyone. “Uh?” 

Perhaps Mycroft. Mycroft is notoriously skilled with the surgical use of phrasing. But—god, no, never Mycroft! The last thing either of them needs at the moment is Mycroft. 

“Um?”  Or Mrs Hudson, but she’d already been. 

John blinks up at Sherlock, stymied.

He’s about to say ‘us’, John is. The idea of an ‘us’, as in a ‘John-and-Sherlock who go dancing together in public’ sort of ‘us’ is remarkably…odd. Everything is rather odd, actually; John admits that truth. However, although John is confused, he also intrigued. Quite. _Highly_. Mrs Hudson is perspicacious woman. He does not doubt her.

“The dancing?” Messieur Holmes, the great tit he is, has gallivanted on to acting deliberately obtuse; John is sure of it. “I’m afraid the dancing is _de rigeur_ , John. It’s romantic, taking a bloke dancing, and our situation calls for romantic. Mrs Hudson has said.” 

“…Has said…has she now?” 

“But yes.” He twinkles at John, an expression the doctor discovers anew is amazingly infuriating under certain circumstances—this being one. “So does Lestrade, when I consulted with him. That’s how _he_ did it; that’s how most of the married contingent of the Yard did it—this romance tosh, it’s endemic, John—and I find that, although tediously middle-of-the-road as far as proper proposals go, I’ll feel miles more confident you’ll say yes to me should I take care to appease your working class expectations upfront without fussing too much over them.”

“Appease?” 

“Yes, appease. Now,” the triumphant arsehole concludes happily, “may I help you dress? Do up your tie? Time is wasting and we have a reservation.” 

“Reservation, is it?” 

“Yes, assuredly. Eight o’clock.” 

John’s waist is appropriated and abruptly a long, lean detective bloke is to be discovered, pressed all down the doctor’s spine, knee caps tight up against the backs of his wobbly legs. Shoe tips budge his heels, insisting. The doctor is herded into a slow turn and finds himself inside their familiar old loo in a matter of seconds, blinking stupidly at the shower curtain, being stripped down. 

Which mostly explains how it was Doctor Watson, confirmed bachelor, found himself sitting at an intimate supper table on the far edge of the main dining room of the Royal, dressed to the gills in his penguin attire.  In the corner a string quartet has nobly begun the process of tuning up. 

It was just on nine, as his flatmate had foretold. 

“Sherlock.” He licked his lips for the umpteenth time in the last hour and half, tasting the remains of a very nice meal of braised lamb shanks adorned with minted peas and mixed roasted spring veg and a shared bottle of red wine as he did so. “Sherlock, mate, look here. I don’t believe you quite grasp the sit—“

“John, hush! The music’s starting. It’s time.” 

The man of the hour—any hour, his friend admits grudgingly—flings down his serviette with a flourish and rises abruptly, all six foot something towering over his companion. He was quite striking a picture, having donned one of his more formal suits and a shirt which reminded his mate strongly of his old familiar dark violet one. This new one was nearly the same shade and it lent a hint of alien colour to his unusual eyes. 

“Ready?” 

John swallows—again. For the umpteenth time, he felt as though his throat was clogged, along with his brain. 

“I—Sherlock? I don’t think I quite—you quite—this isn’t—“

He would dearly love to complete a sentence, but it seems quite impossible. 

Sherlock snorts. 

“This is exactly what it looks like, John. It is me, asking you to dance. I want to hold you. I want you in my arms, in my life, in my bed. Again, often. I want the right to have that available to me anytime I damned well please, thank you, which is why, in just a few moments, John, the musicians will be kind enough to halt on my signal and I’ll fall to my knees before you, likely quite dramatically, and proceed to beg you to be mine—now and always.”

“Sher—Sherlock!” 

John struggles for full breath and flails his own serviette in agitation. His friend might not be cognizant of the phlegmatic nature of a normal Brit but _he_ certainly is. This sort of spectacle Sherlock is creating is not done. Not done! 

“Are you totally mad?” 

Also, the good doctor finds he is all of the sudden rather overcome with a mixture of unlooked-for lust and awkwardly heartfelt affection. Tinged distinctly with a species of annoyance only ever engendered by a Holmes brother. Particularly this one. His favourite. 

“This is—you haven’t even talked to me— _not one word_ —we, we’re in public!” 

“Sod that.” 

The detective snatches away the fluttering white cloth square and takes firm hold of John’s hand again as he does so. John notes Sherlock seems very attached to his hand; he’s certainly been clasping it enough recently to make up for an entire lifetime of ‘bad touch’. 

John finds he is oddly proud of that. Yes, proud, so sue him. 

“John. John, be quiet,” Sherlock commands him, softly. "Attend me." The serviette is dropped to the floor without thought and the detective executes a perfect bow, bending at the waist and raising John’s hand to his lips with a pronounced flourish. “John,” he murmurs again and the doctor goes stone still. All of his heart seems throb in his eardrums—it must the lingering effects of concussion, yes? 

“Please?" John feel that he has seen that expression before, but from a great distance. Perhaps six floors worth, perhaps from three years gone. "I want to marry you," Sherlock insists impatiently. But...also in a puppyish sort of manner. "I want us to engage in the closest, nearest approximation of legal union, of real life marriage we’re allowed—flowers, pesky choir boys, golden bands and bells, wedding panoply and all that rot—and I need it to be now." John's heart melts at the word 'allowed'; it's runny, right in his chest. "Right now, without waiting another single, solitary moment. In fact—bother the waltz. We never needed the waltz anyway. _I_ certainly didn’t.” 

No, John decides. Not concussion at all. Madness, that’s it. 

“You’re mad,” he murmurs, feeling that someone responsible should mention it; likely him, as he’s a medical man and can deduce such via his intensive training. He studiously ignores his marshmallow interior with all his might; Sherlock may very well be mistaking the abominable 'sentiment' for the simple joy of reuniting. John won't allow him, cannot allow him to err. Not in this area. Never in this area...no.  “Barmy. Cracked.” 

“No!” Without further adieu, Sherlock goes down, kneeling on the fine parquet wooden inlay and clutching John’s damp palm within his own, bending his lily-white nape and pressing the back of John’s wrist to lips that have gone absolutely pinched from tense pressing. 

“I need you,” Sherlock exclaims. John’s heart stops to listen. “Say yes. Say you will. John, _please_.” 

John parts his lips. Stares dumbstruck, even though—had he thought about it logically—all evidence in the last twenty-four hours has been leading inevitably to this moment of truth. 

It’s been, when all is said and done, a long three years. Excruciatingly. John’s head still aches; his neck is being strangled by his collar. A second whack at Sherlock’s stupid expectantly eager face would be most satisfying, even if he wouldn’t care to really mar it. 

He stares at Sherlock; stares and stares, and sees the angles and the tiny lines. The hint of naked terror and the mask of overwhelming certainty.  All the sentiment dug up like dead bodies from deep graves—all of it, laid out like a feast for his senses. 

“John?” 

Sherlock—the git—actually dares gnaw on John’s wrist; he nips it. 

John stares, speechless. 

Everyone in the Royal’s main room is staring at Sherlock as well. No—at them, the two of them in tableau, and that included even the members of the quartet. 

“You,” Sherlock gulps hard. John’s hand has been wrenched up and shoved against his furrowed brow like a poultice; he’s moved to frowning, is clearly unhappy. To wait, that is, till John catches up. “You know you want to, John,” he grits, narrowing his eyes on his prey. “It’ll be—it’ll likely be very—be very _dangerous_. You know you do. Say you will, then.”

If ever anyone deserved a kick in the teeth, it’d be Sherlock Holmes. On general principle. 

But John loves him, this man. This fascinating, wonderful man. Loves him with his whole heart, loves him unto death and beyond; cannot imagine a world where he does not love him—his Sherlock—and it’s as simple as that. There is no other response possible, not for John Watson: 

“Yes.” He swallows hard. “Yes.” 

John’s throat is bone dry but somehow his lashes are damp again and Sherlock appears a bit blurry when viewed through them. That makes no never mind. He sweeps off his spectacles as he joins Sherlock on the floor and they are falling toward one another, in the world’s slowest of all possible embraces. It seems to take a legion of eons, tied together.

When he arrives, though, it’s all good. 

“…John? John, don’t cry. I can’t cope with—“

So very good.

When Sherlock buries his nose in John’s ear and sobs, just a dry little huff, John squeezes his eyes lids shut barely in time to prevent the flood. He’s home again, safe and sound, and there’s no need for tears. Not from anyone. 

Not ever again.

No, sir.

“ _Yes, please_.” 

  


  



End file.
